Hell and High Water
by Mel88
Summary: Life's choices are unfair, difficult, and occasionally impossible. But to stand in inaction is to perish, and to perish is to fail. What determines survival, and ultimately success, is one's ability to adapt to the consequences of the action taken.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: This was written for the 2011 Dramione Remix over on LJ, and my chosen couple was Odysseus and Penelope from "The Odyssey."A huge thanks to my betas, Elene and Joanna! Any errors that remain are entirely my own.

I've had this plot bunny bounding around in my head for a _very_ long time but I couldn't think of a believable way to bring it to fruition. It was frustrating and I had more or less given up hope of ever getting to write it until a friend cajoled me into signing up for the 2011 Dramione Remix on LJ. I picked my couple (brave, steadfast Odysseus and loyal, cunning Penelope) and was, for a moment, stumped on how I would tell their story within the Potter universe. Then: **boom**. Inspiration struck like a thunderbolt from Zeus. Finally, I had my answer.

_The Odyssey_, though it was not a popular book in my high school, was an epic I fell in love with almost immediately, and the admiration has lasted for almost a decade now. Persistence and patience, fidelity and faith, hope and love: universal themes weaved into an intricate storyline that was brimming with action, adventure, magic, and wit. I don't know how much of that I've managed to capture below, but I'm marginally sure I did my couple justice. And that's what really matters, right?

**Chapter One**

"Once more."

Hermione looked up from her page and sighed. "You said that last time." She shifted in her seat until her bare feet were wedged between Draco's right thigh and the couch.

"Merlin, your feet are cold. I can feel them through the fabric! Don't you ever wear socks?"

"It's April. It's too warm for socks."

"And yet your feet are cold."

She shrugged and turned back to her book – a Muggle novel called _The Aeneid_, written thousands of years ago by some dried-up old Roman.

When he had first seen her reading a Muggle novel, he had scoffed. He didn't know why she bothered. Wizarding literature was not only more germane to her life now, but also more immersive. Quite literally, too, if one was willing to spend the gold on it. Yet she was unwilling to 'let go of that part of herself' and argued that 'a great story transcends cultural divides.' Her words, of course, not his, and he continued to scoff until she read him a scene from _Jane Eyre_, the scene where Jane hears Mr. Rochester calling out for her though they were miles apart.

The magic in that passage, though it was unlike the kind with which Draco was familiar, was enough to persuade him that maybe Muggles _did_ know a thing or two about storytelling.

However, the dust jacket of _The Aeneid_ sounded less like magic and more like a treatise on Muggle ancient history. It was a prospect that interested him none at all, so that particular novel would _not_ be one he would take up when she finished, no matter how persuasive she was.

And Merlin, could she be persuasive.

"Your hands are cold no matter the season," she remarked absently. "If my feet are occasionally chilly, who are you to judge?" He smiled, though she didn't see it, and turned back to his own reading: a far less amusing Malfoy Holdings yearly report.

He was twenty three years old, less than two years away from assuming Lucius's position on the board of directors as Paramount Administrator and Heir Apparent. Being groomed to take his father's place had its drawbacks. The droning reports were one of them, as was all the time he spent schmoozing clients. Whether in the office, traveling abroad, or on the Quidditch pitch (where he was contractually obligated to throw the game in his client's favor – a task which he utterly _loathed_), Draco did so much schmoozing that it felt like it was _all_ he did.

At least he was good at it.

The perks of the job, however, far outweighed the odious task of charming billfolds from the pockets of rich old wizards. Exclusive use of Malfoy Manor, for instance, was lovely. His parents had unofficially retired to a cottage on the eastern edge of the property. He still saw his father for work, but the evenings and the weekends were his own. He also bought a luxury traveling broom, which he wrote off as a business expense, received a new set of dress robes, courtesy of his mother, and commanded his own fleet of elves. Fleet was hyperbole, actually. He had two – Tippin and Radey – and they were more than adequate to fulfill his relatively simple needs.

But the best perk of all, and the perk he took immediate advantage of after the Battle of Hogwarts and the ensuing trial, was that he could begin courting Hermione Granger.

He had had an inkling of his feelings before their fourth year at the Quidditch World Cup. He had told her to run, terrified of seeing her flying fifty feet in the air with that Muggle family. He was desperate that she not be hurt and utterly confused as to why he felt he felt that way. Then at the Yule Ball, as she descended the staircase, a vision in flowing, periwinkle blue, the inkling coalesced into something more.

From then on, he was lost to her. He dogged her friends at every corner just to see her, was cruel to them in ways no one else could be so that she would look at him, catch his eye, and maybe glimpse the truth of what he thought, what he felt.

He hated to hurt her so badly, but it was all for protection. _His_ protection. It was a weak excuse. Back then, his excuses often were. But how could she ever accept him on her own? They would never come together naturally. He was daft to hope for it. Pushing her away somehow made it easier for him to cope with that hard reality.

And then seventh year started. And then she had been captured and brought to his home and tortured in the now-sealed wing of Malfoy Manor. He had watched her writhe and cry and scream and done nothing to help her. Hadn't even tried to alleviate her pain. The memory still haunted him. He recalled clearly how hot his blood had burned for her, how he had been consumed by rage and despair, and how, as she disappeared with Potter and Weasley, what he felt didn't matter anymore, anyway. If she hadn't wanted him before, the possibility of her wanting him _now_ was decidedly impossible.

And then in the Room of Hidden Things. All Draco had wanted was his wand: ten inches of hawthorn perfection with a core that knew him like his mother's simply did not. It was Crabbe's bloody idea to capture Potter and bring him to Voldemort. Draco didn't care about Potter. He had stopped caring about any of them since he realized how hopeless he must have looked through Hermione's eyes. It was habit and habit alone that kept him with those buffoons. Had Crabbe survived the inferno, Draco would have cursed him senseless and exorcized him from his life like a malignant tumor.

He disliked thinking ill of the dead, but after putting them all at risk – putting _her_ at risk? She had been stunning in her ferocity, though, bearing down on him with teeth bared and wand raised. Her face was bloodied, her clothes were frayed, but still she seemed to glow with power and control. She was vicious. She was intense.

She was beautiful.

Nearly as beautiful as she was in her pain. Seeing her scream, the sobs that wracked her body, the _agony_ of her expression when she thought Potter was dead… It was different from watching her tortured in the Manor. It was like her capacity for love had been made manifest. Draco had never seen such passion before, such _depth_, and seeing it in _her_, in the woman he loved – yes, damn it, _loved_! – brought him to his knees. That was the moment he knew that she was the better witch, would _always_ be the better witch, the better _person_. That was the moment he knew that he would always admire her for it.

Yet despite the pain and hatred and tears that were a product of his bigotry, she had stood up for him at the trial. She had defended him, even called him brave for surviving where so many would have died. The weight of his misery and guilt had lessened then and, in the reprieve, he saw her as if for the first time.

As his grey eyes locked upon hers, they _connected_.

And, miracle of miracles, she _understood_.

It was like all of the tacit messages he had tried in vain to communicate over the years exploded in a firework of clarity. It was an experience so profound it was almost spiritual, which was saying something because Draco had never believed in that bunk. He owled her a week later, the eve he was declared "Not Guilty." He asked her out to tea to talk. One night later, he had his reply.

That was almost five years ago. Time had since taken them down a road Draco had been sure he would never get to travel: weekends shared with their respective parents and friends; nasty fights which turned into duels she _always_ won, and not for a lack of effort on Draco's part; tentative apologies culminating in wild, almost vicious make-up sex; hours in each other's company spent in silence that was at once comfortable and meaningful. It had all led them to tonight, to this night, where the second stage of their lives would, Merlin permitting, begin. A giddy bubble took form in Draco's chest and he clutched at the small box in his left pocket. Best not get ahead of himself.

"Just once," he repeated, dampening the glee in his voice. "I promise not to ask again."

"Oh, do you?"

He held his head high, ignoring her skepticism. "Malfoys always keep their word."

"I have evidence to the contrary," she deadpanned.

"Never!"

She rolled her eyes and shut her book, gesturing with it for him to ask.

"_The Prince and the Pauper_."

"Mark Twain, also known as Samuel Clemens. Rich boy and poor boy look alike, meet on the streets of London, and switch places. Each grows up in the other's environment and switch again just before the poor one is made king."

"_The Count of Monte Cristo_." One of his personal favorites, though it hit perhaps a bit close to home, thematically.

She glared at him. "Alexandre Dumas. Unfortunate sailor accused of being a traitor and imprisoned for it right before he was to marry the woman of his dreams. Escapes from prison, murders or otherwise ruins his accusers, and starts a new life with a new love, finally at peace."

Draco smiled devilishly. "_Rugged Heartache_."

"A bodice ripper?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, the one the Weaslette was raving about. The one I saw her slip into your bag after dinner with Scarhead and the Ginger two weeks ago. The one by that witch… Oh, what _was_ her name?" He tapped his finger against his chin, silently delighting in the flush of red slowly creeping into her cheeks.

"Ginny's married now."

"She'll always be Weaselette to me."

"You know I hate those nicknames."

"And I'm so keen on _Ferret_."

Hermione groaned; Draco smirked. "You're supposed to be reading your report," she chided, opting for a different line of attack.

"I like listening to you better," he parried. "Not everyone has this talent, you know."

"I do know, and it's a talent I'm beginning to regret sharing with you."

She said it seriously, but Draco savored a secret smile. Hermione was immensely proud of her quirk – the uncanny knack to recall title, author, and plot of any book she'd ever read. As she read faster and more voraciously than anyone he had ever known, it was doubly impressive. "_Rugged Heartache_," he repeated.

She sighed. "Last one and I mean it this time! Aphrodisia Boon. Broken-hearted after discovering the affair of her boyfriend and her boss, jilted heroine Natalia Sunshine vacations in the Himalayas where she meets a man cursed to look like a Yeti. She eventually finds the book which tells her how to break the enchantment, but not before she and the Yeti fall madly in love and do unspeakable things in his den."

"Sometimes I wonder about her." The words were barely audible through his gasping laughs.

"As do I," she agreed, though clearly not finding the summary as funny as he did. Probably because she had to read it. "Oh, leave off and finish your report."

"Blast the report," he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "It's Friday night."

"It is, but you promised your mother lunch tomorrow, and we're meeting up with my parents on Sunday for dinner."

He scoffed. "My mother just wants to make sure that Potter and Company are still on for the Solstice Gala. You know she doesn't actually _want_ to see us." He ignored her reprimanding swat and continued. "Besides, how can you expect me to focus when you're such a lovely distraction?" He ran his hand up her bare calf to the crook of her knee. She squeaked and flinched away at his tickling touch.

"If I'm such a distraction, then I'll just leave now. I don't want you to be preoccupied this weekend."

"I don't want you to leave."

"Then I suggest you focus," she reprimanded gently, removing his hand from her knee.

He held onto her, placed a tender kiss on her knuckles and when he spoke, his voice was low and seductive. "Hermione, I don't _ever_ want you to leave."

Her fussy exterior disintegrated when he smiled at her. She smiled back, her brown eyes warm, radiating what could only be love. Draco took a deep breath and produced the box from his pocket. He opened it and let it rest in the cup of his palm. He did not need to look at the ring. He knew what he would see there: a starburst of emeralds, diamonds, and platinum. His own design. What he drank in, what he _needed_ to see, was her expression. He was not disappointed.

"Elope with me, Hermione," he whispered, humored by her delight and surprise. "Elope with me tonight. It's perfect for us: you don't want a big wedding… I don't want to face my mother..." Her lips quirked upward. Draco laughed and shifted closer to her. He could smell the sweet scent of her breath, which came in excited little puffs. How could her very _breathing_ be endearing? "We can go anywhere you want," he continued. "_See_ anything you want."

Her eyes lit up, turning from almond brown to glowing mix of gold and copper. "Cairo?"

Draco beamed; it felt like his chest was about to burst. "I'll take you to the top of the Great Pyramids," he whispered into her ear.

Her voice was velvet skimming across his skin. "Brazil?"

"We'll raft down the Amazon," he trailed kisses along her neck and jaw, "and across the continent itself."

She very nearly purred with pleasure. "The Arctic?"

He scoffed. "As charming as you would look in a parka, I had rather hoped to see you with _fewer_ clothes on."

This earned him a proper kiss with tongue and fire. He lost himself in it completely.

"What about our weekend plans?" she asked when they had come up for air.

"Told our mothers that I'd come down with the flu. Neither fussed much."

"So arrogant," she chided, but her smile remained. "A Portkey?"

"Arranged. Tell me where you want to go."

"Greece," she answered at once. "The Parthenon. I want to get married under the stars."

"Before the eyes of the gods?"

She laughed and ran her fingers through his hair. "Maybe we'll visit Delphi on the way home."

"I heard they have a decent oracle."

Another laugh, another kiss. Gods, he should have proposed _ages_ ago. "As long as we keep it to ourselves for a while. No sense in causing a fuss."

"As long as _you_ stay the night. And every night hereafter."

Hermione wound her arms around his neck. "I'll get my things."

With Draco's help, it took her less than twenty minutes to pack, and only that long because he couldn't keep his hands off her. The discomfort of the Portkey was immediately remedied by their arrival at the picturesque Grecian coast. Soon, he located a Registrar (reimbursed healthily for the late hour) and traveled to the Parthenon. They joined hands and spoke words that would bind them together for eternity, witnessed by the moon and stars:

"I'll be your comfort in pain, your shelter from rain. Your light in shadows, your courage when wind blows. Your warmth in the cold, your strength when you grow old. Come sickness or health, poverty or wealth, with honesty and trust, you are my whole life and true love. Through hell and high water, there will be no other. Take this ring and share my heart, and may the Fates never tear us apart."

As Draco and Hermione slept together routinely, he held neither of them to lofty expectations. But there was something different about making love to his _wife_. She was a part of him now, a very real and tangible piece, and she gave herself over to him willingly, the perfect partner. Her hands were like silk upon his shaft, her tongue dancing over the head slowly, sensually. Her rhythm brought him to the edge ecstasy and there she let him hang, teasing him like he loved and hated. But he gave as good as he got, using his tongue and teeth in wicked ways, and held her to him as she bucked and moaned and begged him to stop.

He moved up her body at a leisurely place, planting kisses as he went. He detoured at her breasts, rolling and flicking her sensitive nipples until each stood at attention. She grabbed for him, pulled his cock toward her heat. He entered her slowly, blissfully, and her whimpers almost brought him over. Buried in her to the hilt, cradled in her hips, he began to rock, to thrust, slow and deep – exactly how she liked it. He tried to keep the pace, tried to build her up slowly, but the heady combination of her smell, her lips, and the feel of her all around him broke his concentration. He needn't have worried. Her back arched, her arms tightened around his body, and she sang for him again the tune he loved best: his name in the key of utmost bliss. He shouted her name in perfect harmony and, with his final thrusts, filled her with his seed, claiming her for his own just as she had claimed him.

His _wife_. _His_. _Forever_.

Draco was fully prepared to spend a week this way, nestled inside her whenever possible and treating her like the goddess she was the rest of the time, but there was just something about the best laid plans. Only two days later and, instead of pleasuring her, he was watching her pack. He fought the urge to speak and lost. Again.

"Don't go."

Even in his nightmares, Draco never imagined he would have to beg his bride to stay with him during their honeymoon. But alas, this was the fifth time he had said those words, though the first time he phrased them as an order. No matter the tone, Hermione was obviously tired of hearing it. She shoved her travelling cloak into the large duffel bag and huffed. "You know I have to. Quit badgering me about it."

He did know. That was what made asking her to stay so painful. The Improper Use of Magic Office typically didn't have anything to do with tracking and apprehending Dark wizards. That was work better left to the Aurors. But in the case of former Death Eaters, Hermione was always called in to assist. The combination of her, Potter, and Weasley was unbeatable in the field. After all they had gone through in school and the joint training they had received under Ministry tutelage, they acted more like a single entity than three distinct people. Potter would shield, Weasley would hex, and Hermione would be three steps ahead of them all, placing traps and protective wards precisely where they needed to be for a successful capture. He had seen them practicing only once and it was a sight that had both filled him with pride and chilled his intestines: anyone on the wrong side of their wands had no chance of survival. And yet…

"I have a bad feeling about this."

"You have a bad feeling about _all_ of my fieldwork."

He growled and tossed his hands in the air. "Am I not allowed to care for the well-being of my wife?"

The tension in the room seemed to dissipate with Hermione's smile, as did some of Draco's ire. She chuckled and voiced his thoughts. "It's a good thing we eloped. I don't think your parents would care for me leaving early from our honeymoon."

"_I_ don't care for it," he grumbled. He crossed the room, took her by the hips, and kissed her firmly. "You're supposed to be producing an heir, not chasing down the Carrows."

He thought the quip would earn him a half-playful, half-serious swat and a glare. Instead, she stepped back from him, her eyes full of daggers. Draco groaned and rolled his eyes, dropping his hands from her waist. "Don't be an arse," she snapped. "And how do you know it's the Carrows?"

He shrugged. "Who else could it be? They're the last two. The last two that really matter, anyway." Hermione huffed again and turned back to her duffel. "They're more dangerous than you think," he intoned, sounding perhaps a bit too sinister. "You'll underestimate them."

She groaned and dropped a small pile of shirts onto the bed. "I've been doing this for _years_, Draco, and I'm damn good at it. Don't you trust me?"

"I do," he groused. "It's your team I don't trust."

"Seven other people. Seven! Three Aurors, two MLE officers, an Obliviator, and a Field Healer. That's eight total."

"I know how to add."

"Then do you know statistics as well? The Carrows will be outnumbered four to one. We're more than a match for them."

"What about Weasley? Potter?"

"You know they're in hospital."

"_Bangladesh_." He said it like a curse. Last week – the first week Hermione had ever missed an assignment because of some hullaballoo with an unruly Quidditch crowd – those two goons had managed to get themselves severely cursed. However indestructible the trio may be together, apart they were still human, fallible and mortal.

"I'd feel better if they were there."

Hermione's brow darkened. "As would I, but there's nothing for it." Her wand vibrated softly. They both looked askance at it. "That's my cue." Draco frowned and crossed his arms before his chest. Hermione pried his limbs apart and inserted herself between them. She belonged there, with him. His eyes prickled uncomfortably. He stared out the window, unable to look at her for fear of what he might do.

"I'll be gone three days, at most," she said softly, planting a soft kiss on his jaw. "And then we can resume where we left off." She palmed his manhood which, despite the circumstances, quivered to life. She chuckled impishly as a smile forced its way across his lips. She raised herself up onto tiptoes and kissed him, a gesture he returned with fervor. He wrapped his arms around her tightly.

"I love you, Hermione." His cracking voice betrayed his worry.

"I love you, Draco," she whispered. "And nothing's going to happen, you'll see. I'll be fine. Oh, and before I forget…" She slipped her wedding ring off her finger and pressed it into Draco's palm. "Take care of this for me. I don't want to lose it."

If the foreboding he felt had been heavy before, now it crushed him. But before he could breathe, before he could grab her wrist and launch into a tirade about how dangerous this was, how uncomfortable he felt, and how much he didn't want her to go, she Disapparated.

Desolate, frightened, and unreasonably panicked, he looked around their suite. Rumpled bed sheets were stained with the evidence of their lovemaking. Towels lay on the bathroom floor, where the air still smelled like her citrus shampoo. The bedside table sported a pair of her knickers, never picked up after being so hastily discarded just days ago. His heart twitched, compressed; it was just mess without her to give it meaning.

Draco did not bother to gather his things. He simply slid the ring into his pocket and Disapparated to the nearest Portkey. Within the hour he arrived at the Manor, where he could lose himself in rooms that weren't saturated with memory.

Three days came and went with no word. This was often the case on assignment. Owls could be intercepted, Patronuses destroyed, Floos monitored. Communication was risky, sometimes even impossible and, though Draco hated it, he dealt with it as well as a new husband could. Which is to say he dealt with it not at all. Every two hours, he Floo'd the Ministry. Eventually, they stopped answering. When he stormed in, demanding to see her department head, he was politely shown the door, assured and reassured that as soon as they heard something, he would, too.

A week passed.

A month passed.

Three months.

Six months.

Eight.

He couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop wandering from room to room, staring out the windows, waiting by the Floo, the front door, the broom shed. Couldn't stop staring at her wedding ring. Couldn't stop twirling the metal-and-gem reminder around his fingers. Couldn't stop wishing for her return. Couldn't stop imagining the circumstances behind her disappearance. Couldn't stop hating himself for letting her go like he had. Couldn't stop cursing himself for being unable to bring her back.

Yet for all the movement he was doing, Draco felt utterly paralyzed.

His mother was as understanding as she could be but, by month eight, she threatened institutionalization.

"She was a lovely girl," she told him, "and of course you're hurting. But she wouldn't want you to go on like this, dearest. She'd want you to continue with your life. Get married, have children. Move on."

Draco knew his mother's sympathy was insincere. His and Hermione's relationship pulled the Malfoy name out of the mud just like Narcissa had wanted. He was certain she never expected them to last. Had probably counted on it ending, in fact, so that a more _acceptable_ alliance could be made. Narcissa the politician. It made him sick.

Her fury if she knew the truth – that he had married Hermione and planned to fill the Manor's halls with bushy-haired, half-blooded progeny – would have been epic to behold. And though little would amuse him more than his mother's anger, his primary concern was always Hermione. She had wanted him to wait. She had wanted them to be a secret. He couldn't break that promise to her. He couldn't tell anyone.

In January, he didn't have to.

It started as a knock on the door, loud enough even to be heard from the library where he was pacing, memorizing book titles, authors, and synopses, trying to remember her voice. He bolted to the door and threw it open, bowling over poor Tippin in his haste. He looked out into nothingness, then down at the stoop.

A basket. A wicker basket covered by a thick, blue quilt and, if the heat radiating off it was anything to judge by, a powerful warming charm. He fell to his knees. His entire body shook and his trembling hands could barely draw back the blanket.

A baby. A _newborn_. Red, wrinkled face. Eyes shut. Hands fisted and held near its chin.

The count was automatic. Ten fingers. Ten precious, _tiny_ fingers.

His own fingers ghosted over the infant, an inch from its skin. He could feel its life, its fragility. Like if he touched it, it would shatter into a million pieces. But he had to know. His finger and thumb tugged upwards on its bonnet.

A full head of platinum blond hair.

Gravity doubled. He collapsed, his shaking arms barely holding him aloft. He couldn't breathe.

He had a _son_.

Wide, silver eyes stared frantically out into the blackness. He crawled past the basket and his breath escaped in the shape of her name, a puff of white in the dark, January air.

Who else? He had never strayed. And the hair. Carried on the Y chromosome, homozygous dominant – a Malfoy gene through and through.

She was alive.

She was _here_.

She had to be. She wouldn't have entrusted their child's delivery to anyone else. And if she was here, she could come back to him. She could come back to him and complete him. Take his hand, restore his sanity. Love him, love _them_. She could come back and give him his life back and he would never let her go again.

_Hermione_.

He shouted her name until he coughed blood, until his voice was nothing more than a rasp, a wheeze, and a sob. There was only emptiness to greet his entreaties, but there was not silence.

The infant. He was crying, squalling with ferocity so great it nearly equaled the misery Draco felt.

He crawled back to the bassinet and sat before his son. His beautiful face was screwed up from bawling and his tiny limbs flailed against the efficient tuck of his blankets. A scrap of parchment revealed itself from beneath kicking legs. Draco needn't have lunged for it, but he did, and almost tore it in his frantic opening.

_D.- _

_Our son, unnamed. Please forgive me. Love, eternally, _

_-H._

Tears trekked flash-frozen rivers down his cheeks. He wept unashamedly into his hands, clenching the letter tightly in his fist.

_Our son_.

_Our. Son_.

He sobbed out a great laugh of overwhelmed joy and looked – _really looked_ – at his baby. He had Draco's chin and Hermione's lips. Draco prayed he would have her eyes as well.

All at once, the hollowness in his chest lessened. The eight months of madness that had crept upon him, that degenerative tar of disease and insanity, seeped away. The world regained its clarity and the nighttime did not seem as dark.

His son was a reason to stay sane.

His son was a reason to live.

_Their son_!

Draco rose to his feet, steady and composed for the first time in nine months. He folded the note carefully and put it into his pocket alongside her ring. He lifted the basket and turned around. Before he closed the door, the night cried a long, keening wail, pitiful and haunting. And Draco felt immaculate because this was what she had wanted.

He would not disappoint her.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Hermione leaned against a wall, feeling irritable.

No, that was inaccurate. Irritable happened when she was late for work or misplaced her favorite quill or lost her page in a book. And irritable was just as easily remedied: a cuppa, a new quill, re-finding her page. But just hours ago, she had been called away from her honeymoon and assembled into a room with a table, a large, ripped lampshade, no chairs, and eight other people, exceeding the room's total capacity by five and a lampshade.

A situation such as this warranted more than mere irritability.

A situation such as this warranted anger.

Hermione grinned sourly. That seemed to fit better.

If all that wasn't bad enough, six of the seven other people in the room were chatting animatedly, complete with hand gestures and fierce grins. Tavish McDonale, senior Auror and leader of their group, MT Eight, was the exception. He leaned against the wall opposite from her, arms folded and head down. He was either deep in thought or sleep.

Hermione reckoned it was thought, but wouldn't have blamed him in the least if it were the latter. She would give her right foot to be able to go to sleep right now, and would even be willing to part with the whole leg if it could be in a bed with her new husband.

She stretched her left hand, glanced at her unadorned third finger, and frowned. Giving the ring back to Draco had not been an impulsive decision. A ring, after all, was information. Information that greatly increased her chances of being taken hostage. A ring meant that someone cared for her, possibly enough to pay a large sum for her safe return. And if not for her sake, then for the sake of the jewel itself.

But placing it into his open palm had felt unquestionably wrong, as if she had severed some sort of bond with him. The thought was ludicrous, of course. Their marriage hadn't been a blood ceremony so the ring was no more than a symbol of their commitment and love. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that she had made a mistake in giving it up. Like she had given up a piece of herself as well.

"Long night, Hermione?"

She grimaced and turned around to face the speaker – a Magical Law Enforcement officer named Mitchell Pajora. Mitchell was an exceptional agent. He had a gift for reciting MLE protocol down to the article number and an arsenal of wicked hexes, the second of which had preserved Hermione's well-being more than once. He often accompanied her, Ron, and Harry into the field and, though he was friendly and easy to work with, his unfailing optimism tended to grate if the hour was too early.

Four a.m. was unquestionably that hour, but Hermione forced a smile anyway. "You have no idea," she deadpanned.

Mitchell smiled and patted her back. "It'll only get longer," he continued. "Looks like it's a real hit this time."

"The Carrows?"

He tapped his nose and nodded. Hermione frowned and crossed her arms. Draco's suspicion, and her own, had been correct. His warning seemed even direr because of it. "Strange that they resurfaced now."

Mitchell shrugged. "They've been on the run for a while, and they aren't the brightest. Maybe their resources are running low."

Hermione shrugged right along with him and lapsed back into silence. Everyone except for the most hopeful Aurors – and Mitchell, of course – had dismissed the possibility of ever locating the Carrows. The siblings had escaped after the Battle of Hogwarts. No one had even noticed they were gone until the guilty were rounded up, and by then it was too late.

That was why the matter was so urgent, she supposed. For going on five years, the case had remained open without a single peep. But tonight, the wards on the Carrows's childhood home had been activated. McDonale had dispatched two junior MLE officers to the house and summoned them all here because of it. As soon as they received confirmation of a breach, they would be off.

"Hope you didn't have any big plans for tomorrow," Mitchell prompted. Hermione shot him a long-suffering look and was about to reply when a wisp of silver shot through the wall to her left.

"Movement confirmed," said an anonymous, faint voice. The silvery light floated to the middle of the room and hovered above the torn lampshade. "Portkey deployment in ten… nine… eight…"

"Alright team, hands on the Portkey!" McDonale shouted. "Hold position when we land and move on my signal!"

"Three… Two… One…"

Hermione gasped as she was jerked across space and time. The alley they arrived in was as cramped as the room they had just left, though considerably dimmer and more odorous. The soft scuttling of fleeing cockroaches sent a disgusted shiver crawling over her skin, and she bit her tongue to keep from crying out as one traveled over her shoe. Mitchell was not so composed and hissed in disgust. McDonale shot him a stern look and gestured for them to follow.

Hermione dropped the lampshade, which looked completely at home amongst the alley's other detritus, and did as she was ordered. McDonale stopped them at the entrance to the alley and gestured across the street toward their target.

The two-story house was small, rundown, and looked somehow dingier in the pre-dawn light. The roof had collapsed in some places and was missing entirely in others. The grey siding was peeling off like a thick scab and a persistent creeper vine had forced its way in through a window. A row of thick hedges provided cover going in, but would severely restrict their visibility.

McDonale's face hardened. Then he shook his head and gestured with his wand again, splitting the group into two. He directed Hermione, Mitchell, an Obliviator she had never met, and an Auror name Flitch toward the back of the house; his team would take the front.

"On my signal," he mouthed. With another gesture, the two teams scurried out of the alley. Hermione's team kept to the far side of the hedges. Once they passed the two side windows, they dropped into a crouch, traversed the short space between the hedge and the back door, and pressed themselves against the outside wall to wait.

She took only two breaths before her wand vibrated in her hand. That was the signal. She exchanged looks with the rest of her team, reaching Mitchell's eyes last. He nodded once and placed his hand on the doorknob. She tensed as he turned it slowly, easing the door open. Though the house was old and in disrepair, the hinges did not make a sound.

That detail struck a chord deep within her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Oiled hinges in an abandoned house? That was wrong.

She reached out to grab for Mitchell's arm, but his foot had already crossed the threshold. Then, he screamed. He turned and tried to push her back, but it was too late. The air seemed to compress as a wall of grey smoke billowed toward them with all the speed and force of a locomotive. It surrounded them all and, with a great, thundering roar, sucked them into the house. The thrill of fear Hermione felt as her feet lost contact with the floor lasted less than half a second. She didn't even have time to scream before she collided with something massive. The air rushed out of her and she fell to the floor with a painful thud.

Unable to breathe, unable to see, unable to raise her wand even an inch, Hermione could only watch as Flitch rocketed over her. A bright green beam of light collided with his chest mid-flight, killing him instantly. The smoke drove his corpse forward still and he hit the wall with a sick, dull sound. He landed in a heap right beside her, his dark eyes wide with surprise but dim with death.

Everything slowed. Hermione could hear the blood pounding through her body as she took in the Auror's death. His dark hair, his dead eyes, his terrified expression, the blood slowly oozing from the corner of his open lips, propelled by gravity in lieu of a heartbeat… She should have protected him. She should have moved faster, grabbed Mitchell sooner, done something, _anything_. But she hadn't, and Flitch had died because of it. For a moment, Hermione felt as unforgiveable as the curse that had killed him.

Another beam of bright green light shot mere inches above her, blasting the plaster and drywall into powder, coating her with fine, white dust.

Just like that, the infinity of Flitch's death ended. Panic set in as her breath returned with a rib-cracking whoosh. She rolled to the left, bounded to her feet, and immediately felt herself yanked into a corner and covered with something warm and large.

Mitchell.

He yelled something into her ear but she couldn't understand him – the air was thick with shouted spells and cries of pain and the smoke's deafening roar. She shoved away from him, trusting her momentum to break his grasp. It worked too well. She crashed to the floor, nearly losing her wind again as Mitchell landed atop her. He grabbed her shoulders and rolled her out of the way, toward the wall he had pressed her against originally, swearing violently as a large chunk of ceiling collapsed where their heads had been.

The roar in her ears became a high-pitched whistle and Hermione panicked.

"Let me go, Mitchell, let me go!" She drove an elbow into his gut and felt his grip loosen. She pivoted in his arms and then froze as she saw what was coming toward them.

A whirlwind the same thick grey as the smoke. It barreled through the doorframe, rattling the walls, cracking them from floor to ceiling and showering them with chunks of concrete and plaster. Mitchell swore and pulled her tightly against him, shielding her face and head with his chest. It was upon them now, hurling broken glass and jagged splinters of wood like shrapnel, embedding deeply wherever they landed, including her thigh.

Hermione screamed and convulsed in pain, clutching at her leg, and Mitchell swore again. Then, the whirlwind was gone, and the smoke with it. The thundering, whining roar had dissipated and in its place were the cries of the injured, the shout of a curse, a low, maniacal laugh, and a slamming door. Mitchell dragged her to her feet and began to haul her toward the rear exit, but she broke away from him, ignoring his outraged bellow. She took off through the cramped hallways as fast as her leg would allow, lunging over the bodies of her injured, unconscious, or possibly dead teammates.

She blew the front door off its hinges with a curse and rushed down the steps. She had just made it to the lawn when a car exploded. She gasped and pivoted, shielding herself from the wind and heat. An insane cackle ripped through the sound of screams and the air was again filled with a mighty whoosh and the smell of burning lumber.

Hermione turned around in time to see Alecto set the second story of a nearby house on fire. The terrified people within screamed and tried to flee but Amycus held them at bay with a barrage of hexes.

A boiling rage settled deep within Hermione's chest and her face contorted with anger. She leveled her wand at Amycus but just as she was about to cast, the Field Healer stepped into her line of sight. She snarled and cursed.

"Move, you idiot! MOVE!"

But the Healer didn't hear her. His hex rebounded off Amycus's shield and, in a single burst of bright white light, Hermione saw and heard no more.

She had never known such fear. Her heart pounded. Her breath came in short, frantic gasps. She was sure each one was her last. The Carrows could be anywhere and the terror of reaching out, of feeling a torn cloak beneath her fingertips or a wandtip to her temple, petrified her. For a full minute, she did nothing but wait to die.

Then, it was as if a switch flicked on. Sight and hearing returned with a jolt that brought Hermione to her knees. McDonale brushed past her with astonishing speed and grabbed the shaken Healer by the arm, demanding an explanation. Hermione heard him stutter and stammer but none of it mattered. The Carrows had escaped again.

By the grace of the gods, Flitch had been the only casualty that day. The rest of the morning was spent treating their injuries (once the Healer had calmed down enough to enunciate the spells), repairing the damage the Carrows had caused, and resetting the house's wards. The Obliviator worked with the witnesses. By nightfall, each and every one had a very detailed opinion of the most recent, action-packed cinema thriller, complete with vivid explosions and a dangerous foot chase.

Protocol was very simple after that. They would return to the Ministry for a debriefing and quietly endure the disappointment of their respective departments. A mission failed after one day, especially a mission which had been so long without any action, was a disgrace. They would probably never get a chance like that again and MT Eight had been the team to mess it up.

Then, an owl swooped low overhead and dropped a scrap of parchment at McDonale's feet. He picked it up and his expression went from tense to furious. He shoved it into Hermione's hands. She felt the blood drain from her face as she read it.

"Do svidaniya." Russian, of course. Literally, until we meet again. But it meant so much more than that.

_Chase us_, it said. _Play our game_.

They exchanged a hard look, and McDonale's eyes hardened with resolve. MT Eight was touted as the best the Ministry had to offer. None of them – from Auror to Obliviator – was accustomed to failure. Though a scrap of poorly-written Russian was little to go on, it was better than nothing at all, and certainly better than facing their superiors with bad news.

McDonale called a Ministry crew to retrieve Flitch's body and used the Carrows's Floo to deliver a quick report to his superior. Then, they Portkeyed to Russia to begin their search.

In her second month there, Hermione discovered she was pregnant. And with that discovery came a terror fiercer and more intense than she had ever felt.

Hermione was not a natural fighter. She was persistent, however, and all the time she spent in the field had honed her offensive and defensive spell-casting until she was formidable in her own right. While confident, she was never _over_confident and if she took damage in the field, well, what of it? Others had taken worse and she was tough. A little blood, a little pain… It wouldn't be enough to stop her from doing what she had to do. At times, it even helped her. A reminder of her own humanity and the concurrent flood of adrenaline made her better, sharper, though she would have never sought it out intentionally.

But now? A scrape threatened infection. A fall meant a miscarriage. A Cruciatus… The very _thought_ made her hurt in a way she couldn't describe. How could she do her job with a baby to protect? How could she give her all to a mission when the risks were so great? The thought of losing her child, _Draco's_ child, was one she could not abide.

But the Carrows had seen her face. They knew her _name_. While they were free, her child would never be safe. She would always be looking for the wand in the night, questioning every friend, chaperoning every trip. Her child would never know freedom, she would never know peace, and Draco, after all he had been through, would never know a life without shadows.

She couldn't live like that. Wouldn't. And that meant that she could not return to Wiltshire. If she was going to confront the Carrows, it would be on her terms. If she was going to protect her family, staying with MT Eight gave her the best chance for success.

The first step was telling McDonale.

He paled. His lips compressed into a thin line and, though Hermione had seen him under pressure before, she had never seen him frightened. He was silent for a long time.

"What do you want to do?" he finally asked.

"I… I want to stay."

"And the infant?"

She held her head stiffly, determined to ignore the implications of her choice even though she said it aloud. "I'll carry it to term and deliver it to the father as soon as it's safe."

McDonale frowned and steepled his fingers. Then he nodded. "Very well. But you'll be the one to tell the team. I'll call a meeting. Nine o'clock tonight. Be ready."

She wasn't. How could she be? These people trusted her with their lives, gave their all each and every time so that they might win a little faster, survive a little longer. She was letting them down. She was no longer "Hermione Granger, War Hero." She was "Hermione Granger, Pregnant Woman." She was a liability. Vulnerable. And her teammates would take it upon themselves to make sure she was protected, even at their own expense. That's just how they were.

She swallowed her fear and, when nine p.m. struck, she stood before them and explained her situation, giving them a say in whether or not she continued with the mission. She outlined the precautions she would take – the protective spells, the disguises – but was realistic about her fieldwork. As her term progressed, she would not be as competent and, though it killed her to say it, protecting the child inside her was her first priority. It had to be. She couldn't be sorry for it.

There was a moment of heavy silence as Hermione retook her seat. Then, one by one, the gathered spoke. The words settled over her without meaning. She was too lost in her own thoughts to pay much attention.

What would it be like to return to Wiltshire permanently with the news of her baby? Would Draco be pleased or upset to be made a father so quickly after being made a husband? And if she didn't return for good, how would she be able to give up her child without staying behind herself? And would Draco accept it? A child was an enormous responsibility. A lifetime of dedication. Was he ready for it? Or would he – _could_ he – deny his own child?

The thought chilled her. Before she could think on it any longer, McDonale's authoritative voice brought her back to the meeting.

MT Eight had decided. Hermione was the only one who could cast the Locus Charm, a particularly tricky spell similar to the Trace. Her previous field experience showed that she was capable under pressure and her research skills were second to none. They needed her. Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.

Months passed in Russia with nothing to show for their scouting. McDonale sent an owl a month to the Ministry requesting more funds, more resources, more people, more _anything_. They did not respond.

Being ignored in the field was completely unheard of and, at the beginning of month four, Mument and Claive (the Obliviator and Field Healer, respectively) threatened mutiny. Hermione didn't blame them. Whenever she thought of Gawain Robards, head of the Auror department, ignoring their missives, rage bubbled up inside her chest, bringing with it the taste of bile and the blistering desire for justice.

McDonale talked them down. "It's not fair," he grunted, "and it's not right. But little is. So shut it and get back to work."

It was not the most rousing speech, nor that convincing, if Hermione was being perfectly honest. But they were MT Eight. They were _different_. They were _special_. They were tough and they were resilient, but they were not impervious to wear.

Mitchell eroded first. By their sixth month in Russia, he was unrecognizable. His hair had grown, as had his beard, which came in thick and dark. He was leaner, his muscles more wiry than bulky. But the real change in him wasn't physical. The happy, optimistic man she knew had disappeared. In his place stood someone bitter, someone who had collided abruptly with a harsh reality and come out worse for it. A cynic.

His attitude was poisonous, spreading to their teammates whether they wanted it or not. Those with thicker skin could stand it in small doses. McDonale, Rutland (the other Auror), and Bruckley (Mitchell's MLE partner), for instance, tolerated him well enough. Those without – Mument and Claive – snapped easily. Fights were common, and it was always Hermione who broke them up. He was different with her, a shade kinder. Not like he used to be – not even close – but he was slower to sarcasm. She thought it might have been because they had a shared history. Maybe she was a reminder of the good that existed in the world.

He was certainly a reminder for her. So, when month nine hit and Hermione went into labor, it was Mitchell who Portkeyed with her to a small town in rural England. The delivery room was like a time capsule and the eleven hours they spent there were from the lives they could have had. It could have been Draco who held her hand during the birth. Draco who coached her breathing and told her to push, laughed when the infant wailed, and joyously shouted the sex of her baby, as well as a finger and toe count.

But it wasn't.

It was _Mitchell_ who cradled her baby boy in his arms, and her heart ached as her son slept, utterly at peace in the arms of a proxy. It was _Mitchell_ who stared at her with all the affection and tenderness in the world, whispered sweet things to her, hummed a lullaby when she was too tired to speak, and thanked her for trusting him when he thought she was sleeping.

It should have been Draco. He should have had the privilege of seeing his son come into the world. But Hermione had stolen the experience from him, deprived him of this small miracle. She wept for it, wept for him, but she could not resent Mitchell for stepping in. She had needed him there. Had needed _someone_. And there he was, like he had always been.

The next morning, he stayed for just long enough to make sure she was steady on her feet. The delivery room spell had long since broken. The sight of her infant had softened his pessimism, but the change was temporary. Already, she could see the coldness creeping back into his body. Her baby was just another happy memory he had to abandon and, like when resetting a poorly healed bone, a clean break was best. He Portkeyed away, leaving her alone with her son for the first time.

Only then did she fully comprehend the terrible mistake she had made. How was she going to do this? How was she going to abandon her child? How was it going to be physically possible to walk away from a being so innocent, so helpless, so _beautiful_? She gazed down at her child's sleeping face. He was nestled in a basket, covered by blankets and a heating charm. She ghosted her fingers over his soft cheeks. He twitched toward her touch. His tiny mouth puckered in search of a nipple.

Her tears came fast and strong. It was too late now. There was no going back, no changing her mind. She had made a decision. Committed herself to the team, to the capture or killing of the Carrows, and to the protection of her husband's and infant's life. She had to follow through, even if doing so destroyed her.

The ancestral wards of Malfoy Manor recognized her and let her through all the way to the front door. She took one last look at her son, memorizing everything she could. Then she knocked, turned, and ran. Tears streamed down her face but she saw past them to the privacy of a nearby copse. From there, she heard in horrific detail the depth of her husband's agony as he screamed for her. She clapped a hand over her mouth, swallowing her own screams. A lifetime later, when Draco came to and brought their child inside, there was no more holding back. A wail tore itself from her throat and rent the otherwise still night air, pitiful and heartbreaking, her love and grief manifested through sound.

And when the door closed, as the child she had carried and borne, who she had not named, nursed, or even held in her arms for fear of what it would do to her resolve, disappeared? Hermione cracked. She screamed and wept and, in her haste and pain and desire to exit her world in the fastest, most painful way possible, did the unthinkable.

She Disapparated to Russia.

International Apparation bordered on impossible and was only ever attempted by the insane. So it was nothing less than a miracle that she landed on the doorstep of the safe house. Less surprising was the extent of her injuries because of it. The skin of her left leg was almost completely missing and the stress had torn the newly formed skin of her healing vagina. Bleeding and nearly unconscious from the pain, it took too much strength to knock, so she lay there, still and silent.

Almost half an hour had ticked by before someone found her, nearly dead from blood loss and frostbite.

Nearly dead. Completely dead was too much to ask for. But it was fitting, wasn't it? She was a mother who had abandoned her child. What better torture was there than life?

Depression was a relentless foe. It sucked the color from Hermione's world, turned food to ash and water to sand, made sunlight dull and dingy and nighttime never-ending. It erected walls around her heart and isolated her from all feelings except for those she would have given anything not to feel. She tried and failed to claw her way up from its grey depths so often that she eventually stopped trying at all, choosing instead to battle through minute after unendurable minute, hoping against hope that everything would work out in the end, and turning into someone unrecognizable along the way.

She fell upon her work like a starved wolf upon a fresh carcass, tearing at it with a dangerous extremism that McDonale regularly reprimanded her for and not even Mitchell could impede. She would have been booted from the team if she wasn't so effective. It took them almost two years to scrounge up enough evidence to lead them to a small-time Dark artifacts dealer. Thanks to the Cruciatus curse and a few well-placed severing spells, it only took her a day to ascertain the general location of the Carrows's Russian bunker. And a few months later, her new 'cast first, question later' approach landed the Locus Charm on Alecto.

The team followed the Carrows into the land of the giants, where the air was heavy with the stench of decay, sweat, blood, and shit. The giants responded to the intrusion with the expected violence, urged on by the Carrows's destructive spells. Spiny feet a meter long stomped with all the force of a felled redwood. Solid wood clubs tipped with deadly metal spikes swung with impunity. One impaled Rutland. The Carrows Disapparated shortly after he was killed, and the only reason MT Eight stayed any longer was to recover his body.

It was a futile attempt. As soon as the giant realized what was on the end of his club, he bellowed a great laugh. He gripped the corpse's arm and, with intentional flair, tore it off, tossing it into the forest at his back. He repeated the process with the other three limbs and finally the head. By that time, Rutland's body was so mangled that it was hard to consider that he had ever once been human.

Seeing that violation, that utter disregard for taboo, drained the fight out of them. McDonale finally called for a retreat and they fell back, Apparating to the safe house. Despite her nausea and the sound and images that were forever burned into her brain, Hermione was grateful. They had been lucky to only have lost him.

The next night, they gathered around the kitchen table. Hermione unfolded the Locus Map which, when used in conjunction with the Locus Charm, located the marked to within a few meters of their actual position. Hermione tapped the map with her wand. To their combined dismay, the entire eastern half of the Amazon Rainforest lit up purple. McDonale shot Hermione an annoyed look.

"Why isn't it working?"

Flustered, Hermione tapped the paper again and muttered the incantation aloud for good measure. The eastern half remained lit. She shook her head and met McDonale's gaze. "I don't know what's wrong. It's never done this before."

He frowned, rubbed his temples, sat back against his chair, then swore. "Doesn't leave us much of a choice, does it?" Hermione shook her head no. Mitchell scoffed. McDonale leveled a withering look at him. "We leave tomorrow, eight o'clock. Be ready." Recognizing the dismissal, Hermione took her map and went to her shared room with Mitchell. He fell asleep almost at once but she stayed up long into the night, prodding at the map, trying to narrow their search field. She fell asleep hunched over it, the eastern half glowing stubbornly.

They left at eight a.m. on the dot and, after an entire day of travel, set up camp near the Atlantic boundary of the forest. For weeks they scouted, prowling deep into the jungle. They saw all manner of insect, primate, and quadruped; fantastic beasts, gloriously colored and amazingly adapted. Some were harmless, others were fierce, but no creature worried them as much as a large dead zone in the heart of the jungle.

From what they could tell, it was thirty acres in diameter and almost perfectly round. It was a strange landmark, alien, at once captivating and repellent. Hermione ventured into it but was too unnerved by the instantaneous change to stay more than a few moments. With one step, vegetation turned from green to brown. The soundtrack of jungle noises faded then disappeared entirely. The silence was deeply unsettling. There was also a feeling, a thickening of the air, a sharpening of instincts. The dead zone screamed of foreboding and brought to mind adjectives like 'grave peril,' 'unspeakable evil,' and 'imminent death.' She took care to avoid it if possible and wondered if this, perhaps, attributed to the malfunction of her map.

Hermione later learned that she had been the only one to dare cross its threshold. While it was certainly creepy, it did not fill her with the same stomach-clenching dread that it did the others. She had stood toe to toe against Voldemort and come out victorious, after all. Whatever was in this wood – be it mythological, magical, or mundane – couldn't possibly be as bad as him. She did not share this opinion with the rest of her team, however, as they all seemed genuinely frightened of the place. Though she was in quite a different position: _ten_ Voldemorts would not stop her from protecting her son. Whatever ailed this wood was no exception to that.

Almost four weeks exactly since they first made camp did MT Eight break it, heading out at dawn toward the Carrows's camp, which was situated just beyond the dead zone. Dense fog and lush humus quieted their exodus but their trek through the forest flora couldn't be completely silenced. Amycus spotted them at the very last moment. He yelled a warning to his sister and they took off through the vegetation, headed east. Straight into the dead zone. Many of her team hesitated, but Hermione drove past them, charging across the perfectly visible boundary between safety and peril.

All she could hear was the puff of her heavy breathing and the light rise and fall of her quick feet. The trees withered and blackened. They stood tall and thick as ever, but their foliage was no more than rot, oozing from the gnarled branches. Then the light disappeared, plunging her into darkness more similar to midnight than midday. She lit her wand, but the long shadows and choppy motion of her running did her little good.

A chill crept down her spine and raised the hairs on her neck. Hermione cursed her hubris and, in a rare moment of depression-free clarity, realized that she had been too hasty. No good could come from a place where no life existed.

As if in response to her thoughts, something moved in the trees a few meters behind her. It screeched, a loud and inhuman sound. It was followed by a very human cry of pain that stopped too abruptly to be natural.

Her gut clenched in terror as she realized several things at once. The first was that, though she could not see more than three feet in any direction, she was most definitely not alone. Second was that the Carrows no longer mattered. Her survival was priority now. Third was that she had somehow gone from the _pursuer_ to the _pursued_. And finally was that, if she was caught, she would be killed. Painfully. A vivid mental picture of her son flashed before her mind's eye. Hermione gasped in a deep breath and put on a burst of speed, slicing through the rotten wood like a razor through flesh, desperate to avoid that final outcome.

Suddenly, a figure burst through the dripping thicket on her left. It was Amycus. She screamed as he barreled into her path; only her whip-quick dodge prevented her from tripping over him. He yelled, recovered from his stumble, and began running beside her. It was surreal, _impossible_, to be so close to the enemy, to have so easy a shot. For a moment, she descended into fantasy. Killing him would be so simple. To just stop running, stop _chasing_, and take aim through the thin veil of decomposing trees separating them. The words were there, as was the will. All she had to do was slow down…

The screech sounded again, high and echoing, like nails on a chalkboard. Talons ripped into the rotting wood close above her. With another dose of fear flooding her veins, the fantasy disappeared and stopping became impossible. Every breath was utilized to its fullest, every muscle extended to its greatest length and flexed with all the power she possessed. She cast hasty curses over her shoulder, never daring to slow, never turning around to look for fear of what she might see. She stumbled over a root, tore through the decayed foliage. Her skin dripped black, foul-smelling sludge and tears streamed from both eyes. Another screech, claws skittering down a tree just behind her to the right. She cast another curse, heard it connect and explode, felt the creature's roar of pain and anger, and pumped her legs harder, desperate for life, for an end to the darkness and chaos.

Just as abruptly as the darkness had begun, it ended. One step – one single step! – took her from Hell to Eden. Her relief was so potent that it swept her legs from under her. She careened into a tree. Something in her torso snapped, and she collapsed at its base with a cry of pain. Her chest heaved. Each breath felt like fire and she was reduced to shallow, inefficient gasps. Her entire body shook. She bit her lips to keep from screaming. The black rot coating her skin burned, stinging like a thousand frenzied bees. She turned her wand on herself, ignoring the grating of bone on bone, and washed the slime off with a powerful jet of water.

A pained howl to her left made her stiffen and cower against the tree. Meters away, Amycus danced and flailed, attempting to scrape off his own putrefaction. Hermione smiled grimly, tightened her grip on her wand, and knew it would never work: some people were simply not meant to be clean.

She raised her wand. Amycus saw. He roared, turned, and – in the very moment before he disappeared for good – Hermione managed the Locus Charm. Then he was gone and she was pulling at her hair in rage and anxiety. She had been so close – _so close_! If she had just turned ninety degrees, ninety _measly_ degrees in the woods, she could have killed him.

Killed him, most likely died herself, and still only have finished half the job.

Hermione could have stayed beneath that tree forever, wallowing in her anger and frustration, but there was no time for self-pity. She dragged herself to her feet and staggered back toward their old campsite, giving the dead zone a wide berth. Hours later, she reunited with McDonale and Mitchell – the two remaining members of MT Eight other than herself. McDonale healed her as best he could (his novice prognosis was a broken rib) and pulled out the Locus Map. Hermione tapped it with her wand, illuminating the signals of Amycus and Alecto. They were in North America and heading east.

For six months, McDonale let them run, hoping that the Carrows would get comfortable enough to drop their guard. The reprieve allowed Hermione to heal and gave McDonale an opportunity to contact the Ministry again. As ever, there was no response. Hermione knew there never would be.

They restarted the chase when the Carrows procured a boat, probably hoping that the endlessness and unpredictability of open water would dissuade them from pursuit. It didn't. McDonale commandeered his own vessel and, for the first time since the start of the mission, Hermione felt like they had regained control.

Her confidence lasted about a day. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon and that night, a hurricane struck. Swells tossed them twenty feet in the air and plunged them down another thirty. Cold saltwater drenched her from head to toe and it was all Hermione could do to hold onto her wand and the boat, occasionally muttering a spell that would bail some of the water and, gods willing, keep them afloat.

It worked, but only just. By the time the hurricane passed, it was nighttime. She crawled around the deck on her hands and knees, feeling for Mitchell or McDonale. The former she found. He was soaked through and shivering, but he was alive. McDonale was gone.

Fieldwork required an absence of emotion. It was important to remain logical, to keep a clear head and make the smartest decisions possible. For too long, Hermione had kept her emotions under lock and key, stuffed away in the deepest, darkest corner of her psyche. They were many and powerful, and the death of McDonale was the chink in the chain holding them back. Mitchell saw what was happening. Before they could burst out of her, he grabbed her and held her so tightly it was painful. He hit her with a Silencio and together, they rocked and wept, bitterly and in absolute silence.

What felt like hours later, Mitchell lifted the spell. Hermione was too drained to protest, too exhausted to stand or sit or even sleep.

"I'll take first watch," Mitchell whispered. Hermione just nodded and lay on the sodden deck, her mind whirring, albeit much more slowly than usual.

She wondered if the Carrows had survived the storm. The Locus Map had said they were nearby before the hurricane hit – no further than a few kilometers. Was their boat still floating, or had it capsized? Were the Carrows dead? Rotting at the bottom of the ocean? Being eaten by sharks?

Hermione savored a bitter smile. Years ago, their orders had been to take the Carrows alive if possible. But that possibility had slipped away with the years. She had dedicated what felt like a lifetime to their chase, lost that precious time with her son and husband. She had no interest in their capture, Ministry orders be damned. The Carrows had stolen too much from her to deserve to share her oxygen.

She could say with complete certainty that she wanted the Carrows dead, and that she wanted to be the one to cast the spells.

The boat rocked gently on the open water, lulling her into a sleep-like state. The Carrows could be right next to them or one thousand kilometers away. Using the Locus Map to determine which would give away her and Mitchell's position, which might or might not kill them depending on the location of the Carrows. And they would only know their location if they used the map… But the map…

She winced and tried not to think about it. Everything came down to luck, as it always had, no matter how hard she fought against it. Only dawn would answer them definitively, and that was hours away.

"_Hermione_!"

She opened her eyes and sat up. There was something different in Mitchell's tone, a strange mixture of excitement and anticipation that she had not heard in a very long time. She crawled toward him and put her hand on his thigh to let him know where she was. He helped her onto the seat beside him. He was shaking.

"Listen." It was less than a whisper, more like an exhale, but it could not have held any more eagerness. She held her breath.

Echoing over the water, faint but present, was the sound of voices. One male, one female.

Her hand tightened on his arm and the exhaustion sped out of her. She stood, completely steady on her feet, and gently tapped the hull of the boat. It moved forward slowly, cutting through the water with hardly a sound. Mitchell steered them toward the noise. Every so often, they stopped to wait for another muted conversation.

Suddenly, a loud curse rang out followed by a bright light. Both Hermione and Mitchell dropped to the floor, completely motionless. But the couple continued talking. Hermione released her breath: they had not been seen.

She lifted herself slowly. The wandlight outlined two figures; both short, broad, and hunched, raven-haired and wheezing. She cursed silently. That wasn't enough for a positive identification. She needed faces, _names_!

No sooner had she wished it did they comply. One lumpy figure shifted and wandlight fell onto a face Hermione knew well.

_Alecto_.

Perhaps the Fates _were_ kind.

"Hurry, Amycus!" she said. "Seal the wound! I won't last long if you don't!"

A truer statement had never been uttered. Hermione stood tall, her whole being filled with purpose and hatred.

There was no duel, no shouts, no harrowing, narrow-margined victory. Just two rays of bright green light, one fired so soon after the other that they more closely resembled one beam of light than two. Alecto fell first. Amycus followed. Their bodies hit the deck with a satisfying thud.

Indifferent to the noise, Mitchell sped their craft close and held his lit wand aloft. Hermione saw the Carrows' corpses in perfect clarity, their features unmistakable.

She lowered herself slowly onto the floor of the boat. Mitchell cast a Stasis Charm on the Carrows for Ministry documentation and joined her. He took her hand but she barely noticed, shutting her eyes and resting her head against a seat. Her wand hung limply in her hands.

"We did it," Mitchell said in quiet amazement. "We actually did it."

She released a breath, one that she felt like she had been holding for too long. For the first time in four years, there was no second step. No Locus to cast, no one to follow, no more monsters to fight. It was finished. And instead of relief, all she felt was hollow.

"We can stop," Mitchell continued. "Hermione… we can _leave_."

She shook her head and cleared her throat. "The Ministry…"

Mitchell barked a laugh. "Fuck the Ministry. We've wasted our fucking _lives_ on the Ministry. I'm not giving them a second more of my time. Neither should you." Hermione turned to look at him, narrowed her eyes, and frowned. "They've forgotten about us, Hermione. _Forgotten_. We've sent owls, and for what? Never a reply. Never reinforcements. Never even a search party! They don't fucking care – probably never did. And they don't know what we went through. They wouldn't _understand_. But you? And me? _We_ understand. _We_ sacrificed. We deserve our _freedom_!" His voice was low and passionate where hers was uncertain.

"I didn't go through all of this just to leave a question where an answer should be."

"Then send another fucking owl, but don't go back. Hell, we _can't_ go back! We're dead to them, dead to them all! Our families, our friends… They've all forgotten, they've all moved on, and it's mad for you to expect anyone to have waited. We have a clean slate now, Hermione. We're in the prime of our lives with no responsibility and no expectations. We can go anywhere, do anything! We can start a new life! Just us! Just us two!"

"Mitchell…"

His lips collided with hers in a passionate and painful kiss. His fingers tangled themselves in her hair and bruised her ribs as he pulled her onto him, crushing her body closer. And she clung to him, too, because in the dark, beneath an endlessly starry sky, Hermione knew he was right.

They _were_ free. Free from obligation, from responsibility, even from their own pride. They could be anyone, do anything. Live quiet, anonymous lives and play at being happy and normal when what they had gone through made them anything but. For so long, their lives had been difficult. Impossible. And now, here was the chance for it to be easy. For once, everything could be _easy_.

"Stay with me," he whispered onto her lips. His hands cradled her face, held her steady, and forced her to look at him. Even in the absence of light, she could see his shining eyes. "Forget them. Forget _all_ of them. _Stay with me_."

He reclaimed her lips, but now the contact felt terribly, _terribly_ wrong. "I can't," she gasped and tore herself away from him.

"Hermione-"

"No. Mitchell, I…" Her mouth gaped but the words would not cross her lips. How could she explain the difference between being forgotten and actively forgetting? How could she describe the physical ache, the _need _that consumed her when she thought of seeing her son? "I _can't_," she repeated lamely, shaking her head.

Mitchell's expression closed off. He dropped his arms. "You'll be disappointed." His words were clipped and sharp. "They won't care. There's no place for you in that world anymore. You'll be alone."

She crawled over to the side of the boat and grabbed a buoy that had rolled beneath a seat. She tapped it once with her wand; it glowed a comforting blue. "I'll tell them we were separated," she said evenly. "You can leave, if you want. They'll never know."

"You'll regret this."

"Mitchell, you've been more than a friend to me. I… I don't think I would've made it if not for you. Thank you. For everything." She placed a chaste kiss on his brow and felt his shuddering inhale.

"Don't do this. Don't put yourself through this. They won't remember you. They've forgotten. You'll be nobody."

She smiled wistfully and cupped his cheek with her palm. "I'll take my chances."

"You'll miss me. You'll miss me, and you'll wish you had stayed. We could be happy together. We could be happy!" His voice shook.

She looked at him one last time, looked _past _him, _through_ him, and saw who he was: the man who had sheltered her from falling debris and saved her life too many times to count; the teammate who had spoken for her, defended her when she little deserved it, and trusted her to do the right thing; the friend who held her hand as she gave birth.

"I love you, and I'll miss you. Far more than you'll ever know."

"Then don't! Please, don't. I'm not coming back. Never. So this is it. If you leave… If you leave now, you leave for good." He clutched at her hand and pressed it to his lips, begging her, pleading, reminding her of everything they had shared, tempting her with everything they could have.

She smiled – an expression at odds with her quiet tears – and shook her head, silencing him. "I wish you every happiness in the world, Mitchell. I won't ever forget you. And I hope, one day, we'll see each other again. One day." She kissed him once more, then stood and backed away. She felt stronger than she had in a very long while. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes.

Then, the Portkey took her home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:  
**This story tied for third place at the 2011 Dramione Remix! Thank you to all who voted!

**Chapter Three**

Draco sat at his desk, his quill moving quickly over parchment. Merger agreements, though important, were essentially all the same: a brief outline of Malfoy Holdings and the company which it had acquired, an outline of the merger's terms (assurances of continued employment, production guarantees, corporate restructuring and the like), and a long-term business agenda that would, Merlin willing, carry them into the twenty-first century and secure his fortune for the next three generations.

It took time but, with Malfoy Holdings expanding at the rate it was, they became easy almost to the point of mindlessness. Draco was grateful for it. He had enough to worry about without obsessing over sentence structure. He was halfway through drawing up the deal for his latest purchase (an up-and-coming Wizard technology development firm named after a fruit, of all things), when Demetrius burst into the study, Narcissa hot on his heels. Draco started and snapped his quill, pooling ink all over his freshly composed documents. He frowned: his work was unquestionably ruined.

"I don't want to play outside! I want to play with Daddy!"

"It's a beautiful day, Mitri, and your father is working. Come along. If you don't want to go outside, how about we play hide and seek with the elves? Doesn't that sound fun?"

"NO!"

"Demetrius!"

"NO! They always cheat! They always let me win!" Demetrius stomped his foot and launched himself onto a chair across from Draco's desk.

Draco tossed his quill into the wastebasket at his side and used his wand to bin the soaked parchment. Then he sat back and sighed. Tantrums were an all-too-common occurrence in Malfoy Manor and the sight of his child red-faced and stomping was enough to send him round the twist. Narcissa had assured him that they were a completely normal part of three-and-a-half year old's behavior, often citing Draco's own childhood indiscretions as proof. But the fact that they _existed_ made them no easier to avoid.

Avoidance, Draco had learned, was key. Though Demetrius was usually a sweet, mild-tempered boy, he had inherited a double-dose of stubbornness and snark that, in Draco's opinion, made his tantrums much worse than a typical toddler's should be. The 'ten seconds to meltdown' look Narcissa shot him indicated that this could be one of those fits. If not diverted soon, calming him would take the rest of the day and considerable bribes.

The little hellion.

"Demetrius, are you behaving for Nana?" The little boy pouted, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and glared at Draco with too-familiar almond-brown eyes. Despite the boy's pique, Draco's heart at once softened and throbbed with pain.

_By the gods, he missed her._

"Nana's the one not behaving," the boy replied petulantly.

Narcissa rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. Draco bit his cheeks to prevent his smile from showing, though Narcissa could obviously read the laughter in his eyes.

"Are you lying?" he asked sternly.

"No," was Demetrius's equally stern reply.

Then Draco gave him The Stare – one of Lucius's more effective parenting tricks. It worked as expected. Demetrius broke eye contact and shimmied in his seat. After a minute of silence and more uncomfortable fidgeting, Draco asked again.

"Nana was being good," Demetrius mumbled.

"That's what I thought. You were being the naughty one, weren't you?"

He looked at his lap, giving Draco all the answer he needed.

"Nana is very kind to you, Demetrius, and Malfoys always repay kindness with kindness."

"_I'm_ a Malfoy…" Demetrius hedged.

Draco nodded. "That you are, so remember it from now on. Yes?"

Demetrius nodded too, and adopted Draco's serious tone. "Yes, Father."

Draco grinned, confident the lesson had been learned. For today, at least. "Now, why don't you want to go outside with Nana?"

Demetrius leapt to his feet and bounced on the fine leather chair. "I _do_ want to go outside! I do! I do! I do! I-"

"_What have I told you about jumping on the furniture_?" Draco's tone swept his son's legs out from under him and his hard glare stilled the usually restless boy. "Tell me, _like a civilized child,_ why you won't go outside with Nana."

Chastised for no more than a moment, Demetrius resumed bouncing in place. "I want to go with you! I want to go on the brooms! I want to play Chaser and Keeper!"

"Manners?"

"_Please_?"

Draco sat back in his chair and folded his hands. This would turn out to be a business negotiation. He could sense it. And, like all trade-offs, Draco was determined to come out the victor, even if the loser was his own son. "Nana can play Chaser and Keeper with you," he said mildly.

"She doesn't let me fly high like you do."

"Well when you stormed in here, you scared me and made me break a quill. I have to start all over again on the work I was doing."

"Sorry, Daddy."

"I forgive you. But this means if I fly with you now, I'll have to do more work later. That means Nana will have to put you to bed."

"What about the monsters?"

Draco allowed himself a smile. "Nana is the queen of monsters," he said lightly, throwing Narcissa a wink. She scowled. "That's why it's so important to be nice to her. The monsters listen to her and, if you're nice to Nana, they can be your friends, too."

Demetrius swiveled in his chair, awestruck at Narcissa's remarkable new power.

"Can you talk to them?" he asked her.

Narcissa grimaced but bobbled her head. "Sometimes," she said. "When they're not distracted by squirmy little boys."

Demetrius's grave expression nearly made Draco crack a rib from holding in his laughter.

"Okay," he responded seriously. "But you got to tell the monsters to not eat me."

Narcissa bowed her head. "I promise."

Demetrius smiled widely and jumped up from the chair. "Let's go fly, Daddy!" He bolted out of the study and down the hall toward the backyard. Draco watched him go, very satisfied at how cleverly he had solved that monster issue. Narcissa read his mind.

"I should hex you for that," she deadpanned, walking around the desk and hitting his arm lightly. "Queen of the monsters… How dare you?"

Draco laughed and rose from his chair, stretching to pop the joints of his lower back. "At least you know he'll go down easily tonight."

Narcissa rolled her eyes and took Draco's arm, leisurely following Demetrius's path.

"He reminds me of you when you were a boy." Her voice was nostalgic, her eyes uncharacteristically soft.

"Your stories make me sound like a terror."

"You were your father's son – how could you _not_ have been a terror?" Draco laughed. "But you were a terror who knew what he wanted, just like our Mitri. You won't be able to out-bargain him for long."

"That's why I'm doing it now."

Narcissa smiled. "Yes, he'll do well in this world. But he needs-"

The tension between them went from sheerest silk to meter-thick concrete instantaneously. "Stop it," he snapped. "Not today."

"Then when, Draco? I realize you don't want to hear it, but it's my duty as your mother to say it." He shrugged her off and surged ahead. Anything to get away from what he knew was coming. "Damn it, Draco, you will listen to me!"

Her shrill command echoed through the hall, stopping Draco in his tracks. She spoke to his back, yet each word found home in his chest.

"She's been gone for four years. She's not coming back. It's time for you to accept it. I know that you loved-"

"_Love_," he corrected sternly. She ignored him.

"– her, but you have to think of your future!"

Draco shook his head. "Demetrius isn't ready. He wouldn't understand."

"You underestimate him. Demetrius is a bright boy. He's accepting and so eager to love."

"You think I don't know that?" he growled.

Narcissa straightened. "I think you choose to see his innocence and vulnerability instead of his strength. You can't bear to tell him what happened to his mother because you can't admit it to yourself."

"She's not dead!"

"She's as good as!"

Draco felt as if a lead weight had dropped into the pit of his stomach. He reached out his hand to find the wall, steadying himself. The pain rendered him speechless, breathless. Narcissa pressed her advantage.

"Demetrius is at an age where a woman's influence will make all the difference. And he will start asking questions that you will have to answer. He deserves to know the truth, Draco. He's your blood. You owe him that much."

"You don't know how it feels," Draco croaked. "To lose her."

Narcissa drew in a shuddering breath. "Do you forget your father so easily?" Heat flared up his neck. "I loved Lucius. When he left us, I thought I would never be whole again. Then Demetrius arrived. He saved me, Draco, just like he saved you. It's time you do something for him now."

Draco shook his head and stared up at the ceiling, willing his tears not to fall. "I'm… I'm not sure I know how anymore."

Suddenly, Narcissa's hand was on his shoulder, comforting and warm. "That's what you have me for, dearest. I know a few young ladies who may be suitable. I'll arrange a dinner for this Saturday."

He shook his head. "No. A Sunday brunch. Here." Narcissa lifted a pale brow, but nodded in understanding when Draco said, "Demetrius."

"I'll make the arrangements. It's time for you to step out into the world again, Draco. To start living again." She smiled and sighed, smoothing his shirt. "Now, go fly. I'm sure your boy is climbing the walls in anticipation." She kissed his cheek lightly and walked away.

Narcissa's insistence that Draco find another woman never failed to upset him. But today was different. Instead of the familiar surge of frustration and anger, he felt overwhelmingly tired. Gone was _his_ insistence that he did not, in fact, need another woman, nor Demetrius a mother; that were doing fine on their own; that Demetrius was a happy and well-adjusted child, right on schedule for a perfect, normal childhood; that Draco was perfectly content with his life and couldn't wish for anything more.

Truth was that Draco _did_ wish for more. Every single goddamn day. Truer still was that he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, content. Truest of all was that Demetrius, no matter how ardently Draco might wish it, was not normal.

Demetrius was Draco's whole world. Curious and precarious, bright and confident, beautiful in every way. Innocent. Perfect. Charming in the way only a three year old could be.

But that was the problem. Demetrius was _three_. All three years olds were carefree and cute. So in that respect, he supposed Demetrius _was_ normal. For _three_. And he could probably remain normal through most of his childhood. At least until age ten, anyway. It was age eleven that posed the problem. At eleven, everything would change.

That's when Demetrius would receive his Hogwarts letter. That's when he would take off from King's Cross Station to live for months at a castle that was miles and miles away from everything familiar. That's when he would learn how to control the magic that was in his blood, where he would meet his peers and learn a different kind of history from what Draco had taught him. That's when he would learn about who he _was_: the son of a missing-in-action war hero and an ex-Death Eater billionaire.

Of course, there was always the option of sending Demetrius to Beauxbatons. Draco could easily relocate to France, and the continent hadn't been as tainted by the terror of Voldemort's short reign. It was there, if anywhere, that Demetrius would be safest from the truth.

But the more Draco thought about it, the less attractive the option became. Beauxbatons, though it was a good school, was not Hogwarts. They didn't have a Quidditch team, for one thing, or separate houses. They wore those silly silk uniforms and observed ridiculous and unnecessary codes of conduct that Draco found rather stifling… Small matters, yes, though the absence of Quidditch would be slightly intolerable. And though it would be beneficial to expose Demetrius to a new culture, France was, well, _France_. And Hogwarts? Well, it was _Hogwarts_. There was something about the place, something wonderful and right that just made it feel like the best choice. Even though it had not always been easy to be there, Hogwarts felt like home to him. Draco wanted his son to feel that, too.

He couldn't keep Demetrius from the truth forever, either. Even at Beauxbatons, word would get out about Demetrius's parentage – not only that he was the son of an ex-Death Eater, but also that he did not have a mother. Though much of society had abandoned prejudice, both against blood and the Malfoy name, there was a persistent stigma attached to single parents. Single fathers, in particular. It didn't matter that Draco was wealthy and connected. Demetrius would be singled out. Bullied, even. Draco knew firsthand how inhumanly cruel children could be. He shuddered at the thought of Demetrius learning about that from the mouth of some foppish, French fool instead of him.

No, Beauxbatons wouldn't solve anything. Telling Demetrius the truth was unavoidable, and the moment for that dreaded conversation was fast approaching.

It was times like these, when he felt so riddled with uncertainty and fear that a mental collapse seemed imminent, that he missed Hermione the most. Draco missed her more than he would miss oxygen had it, too, been suddenly and violently ripped from his life. And though losing her had punched a gaping hole into his existence, he couldn't forget her. Couldn't stop loving her.

Could he?

How fresh was the wound of her disappearance? How vibrant was his memory of her? Her face was easy to recall, both from pictures and their son. Draco saw her in Demetrius's expressions so clearly sometimes that it made him ache, but Hermione had always been so much more than a furrowed brow, a bitten lip, and sparkling eyes. She had had wit, ambition, and more kindness than one human being had any right to possess. She could have outstanding patience, but her temper had triggers that fired at the lightest touch. She could be logical and objective almost to the point of madness, but wept whenever she saw acts of compassion. She was multifaceted and complex, and he remembered studying her for hours, trying to perfect a logarithm to predict her behaviors, and consistently failing when he put his theory to use.

His memories of her were strong, but time was a sly thief. It stole the details, the quirks that made her so utterly unpredictable and so unquestionably his. Her smell, for example. He remembered femininity and citrus and warmth, but those were just adjectives. He had long since lost the ability to conjure that swooping-sinking-twisting feeling in his stomach that would sometimes happen when she entered a room or cuddled close to him at night. Her voice, too, had faded. Her tone when she lectured, when she scolded, when she laughed… Draco had thought these memories were permanent, unalterable, but they had disappeared with her.

_It wasn't fair_.

The thought, petulant and childish though it was, was true. It wasn't fair to lose her in the prime of her life, of _their_ lives, when things were supposed to be easy and pleasant. They were supposed to raise a family together, to die side-by-side of old age, fulfilled and content. And now they would never have the chance. Now she was gone and Draco was still here, living with the constant, lancing pain of what memories he retained, hating the hurt he felt because of them, and positively _loathing_ that the sting of it diminished a little more every day.

But perhaps it was a good thing. Perhaps Narcissa was right to insist that Hermione was well and truly gone. Why else would Hermione not be with him? What else could keep her away from their son but death?

Nothing could. Nothing _should_.

At least, that's how it was for Draco. When he had first realized that the pink, squalling thing on his porch was his child, Draco became instantly and irrevocably devoted to his son. Nothing would have stopped him from seeing Demetrius's eyes open for the first time, hearing his first word ("Da" – Draco was sure it counted), witnessing his first, hesitant steps down the charm-buffered hallway of the manor, cheering on his first successful trip to the loo, or laughing at the glorious mess of his first spaghetti dinner.

Nothing but death would ever keep Draco away from his boy. And Hermione had always lived with such passion and energy that Draco assumed it had to be the same for her, too. Yet she had missed them all, and would continue to miss even more of Demetrius's 'firsts.' What else could he possibly conclude but the worst?

Draco cursed and shook himself. Narcissa was right. Damn it, she was _right_! Hermione was gone. Hermione was _dead_. And he was wallowing. He had isolated himself on purpose, shunned his and Hermione's friends in favor of self-pity and solitude. He had isolated Demetrius, too. Deprived the boy of friends, extended family, of _happiness_. Draco had lost Hermione, but Demetrius was losing much, much more, and Draco had been ignoring that truth for far too long.

It was not fair for Demetrius to have a father stuck in the mire of personal tragedy. It was not fair for him to only receive love and praise from one parent. It was not fair to harbor him from the truth, to subject him to the cruelty of ignorant children and an intolerant society with only one outlet for support and advice. It was not fair to make his son suffer when he could do something to prevent it.

The mere thought of Dememtrius's pain was enough to solidify Draco's decision.

It was good that the ghost of Hermione was fading. _Had_ faded. It would be easier for him to move on if he could forget her. And on Sunday, he would do his damnedest to not hold his guest to unreasonable standards. He would accept that she wasn't Hermione and never would be. He would be realistic about her personal flaws, how good of a match she would be for him, and how good of a mother she would be to his son. He couldn't promise success right away, but he would try. Eventually, he would succeed.

He would succeed because Demetrius deserved every good thing the world had to offer.

He would succeed because it was finally time.

"Daddy! Daddy!" A hurtling three-year-old slammed into Draco's legs, wrapping them in a vice grip and releasing them almost immediately. Draco stumbled and steadied himself by placing a hand on his son's head. Seeing Demetrius was like seeing the first green of spring after a terrible winter. He was magical, there was no doubt.

"Ready to fly, Mitri?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah! I want to be Chaser! Why are your eyes all red?"

The observation, tacked on so haphazardly to far simpler issues, caught Draco off guard. He ruffled Demetrius's wavy, platinum hair. "Nana told me a funny joke."

"Tell me!"

"Manners?"

"Tell me, please?"

"Maybe when you're older. Now where's my broom?"

"I'll get it!" And Demetrius zoomed away.

Draco smiled, touched his trouser pocket, and felt strangely at peace.

It was time.

Hermione took the lift to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in search of her supervisor. Her disheveled hair, stiff, torn clothes, and generally unpleasant odor turned several heads. Before she could even reach her desk, she was flanked by two security wizards who took her by the arms. She put up no fuss as they escorted her into Interrogation Room Alpha – a pretentious name for a perfectly square, drab room with a table, three chairs, a single door, and no windows.

For the next three hours, every Ministry official that had ever worked with her (and a few who had not) tried to establish positive identification. Apparently, if one was missing for four years, it was more likely to have one's wand and identity stolen than it was to reappear. It didn't help either that the last two spells she had used were the Killing Curse. The _real_ Hermione Granger would never kill anyone.

Oh how little they knew.

Barraged with both spells and questions, she waited through it all with imperturbable patience. But when a man named Quircke from the Department of Mysteries who she had never seen before threatened torture if she didn't 'confess,' Hermione cracked. She yelled both at the smarmy man before her and the officials on the other side of the wall to bring in Harry and Ron, that they would know her in an instant. Quircke muttered that, until they were sure of her identity, it was best not to involve anyone with 'emotional investment.' She would've cursed the bastard if they hadn't confiscated her wand. As they had, she did the next best thing.

"You listen here, you son of a bitch," she growled, curling her fist into the front of his robes. "I have been doing _your_ work for four _fucking_ years and if I want to see my two best friends, then that is my bloody _right_."

The Unspeakable was quick with his wand, but her friends were faster. Hermione felt the power of his hex fizzle away against the strength of Harry's shield around her. Quircke flew out of her grasp into the opposite wall, pinioned solidly by a grim-looking Ron.

Harry turned to her. He looked into her eyes for a full minute, completely silent. Then, with a small cry, threw his arms around her and clutched her to him.

"Knew it was her," Ron croaked and Hermione felt his long arms wrap around both her and Harry. Finally reunited, Hermione allowed herself to break. She sobbed into the crook of Harry's neck while managing to bury her body into the hollow of Ron's shuddering chest.

Their reunion was interrupted by Robards. He gently pried the trio apart and attempted to usher Harry and Ron out. They realized what was happening at once and, predictably, threw a fit.

"You can't make us go!"

"She just got back! She needs us!'

"A favor, Robards – you still owe us for Bangladesh!"

"Not to mention for saving the fucking world."

"I won't talk to anyone else!" Hermione declared, silencing them all. Robards wasn't backing down and Harry and Ron were right: she needed them here. They were the only ones she could talk to right now. The only ones she trusted.

Robards opened his mouth to protest, but she was faster. "I talk to them or I talk to no one." The steel in her tone made it clear that she would not be swayed. The Auror regarded her carefully then nodded once.

It took her over five hours to tell it all, including clarifications and questions. When Kingsley asked her to start again, she outright refused, referring him to the multiple transcripts she knew had been taken.

After a tearful goodbye with Harry and Ron and receiving promises from each of a visit soon, Hermione was Disillusioned and sent to a private room at St. Mungo's. Due to the clandestine nature of her mission and the lives it had cost, the Ministry had decided that discretion was priority number one. Rather counterintuitive, she thought, as half the MLE had listened to her statement, but she was tired and more than willing to play along if it meant a shower, a change of clothes, and a bed.

Harry and Ron arrived at the start of visiting hours the next day, more punctual than she thought possible. They visited every day thereafter, updating her with everything that had happened while she was away.

Harry and Ginny had had their second child and were planning a third. Ron had reunited with Lavender Brown, who was far more ferocious after her run-in with Greyback. She was pregnant with their first child and due in October. Neville was teaching Herbology at Hogwarts and had married Luna Lovegood. No children yet, but they were certainly trying. George had married Angelina, and the joke shop was booming, sometimes literally. Arthur Weasley had had a medical scare – something to do with a malfunctioning electrical socket – but he was fine now. How could he not be under Molly's diligent care? Her own parents had both retired comfortably to Australia. The Weasleys and Potters wrote them often. She was relieved to hear they were doing well.

There was more – so much more! – and Hermione found herself lost in the details. But it was so nice to hear their voices that she let them continue, basking in the familiarity.

The end of the week approached and, with that, the end of her confinement at Mungo's. The Healers had given her approval as soon as she could fall asleep without needing potions. As long as she attended weekly therapy sessions with a Mind Healer of her choice, she was free to go. As expected, it was the Ministry that needed convincing.

Kingsley arrived ten minutes before she was set to leave, right after she had gotten out of the shower and right before she had started packing her embarrassingly small bag. They exchanged five minutes of meaningless pleasantries (she continued to pack) before he reached the heart of the matter.

"To be quite frank with you, Ms. Granger, your return is a public relations nightmare. I'm sure you appreciate what a sensitive issue this is and what your homecoming means for the Ministry."

Hermione took a deep breath and braced herself. She had known this conversation was coming. "I understand better than most just how sensitive an issue this is, Minister."

"Then are you certain you feel well enough to go?"

It was a loaded question. One that Hermione didn't feel deserved an answer. "I'm sure you can appreciate my reluctance to stay here any longer than I have to, Minister." She worked hard to keep the venom out of her voice, but failed.

Kingsley shifted his weight, then nodded. "Of course, of course. You need your life back. We have no problem giving you your freedom. However, we have not yet informed the families of the deceased."

He let his words hang for a moment. Bile bit the back of Hermione's throat. She clenched her jaw and stopped packing. What Kingsley said next would be very important to them both.

"I understand if you want to go public with your experiences. It is your right and I believe that your story must be told. But I am asking you to wait, Ms. Granger. Let us go to print first."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "I'm not an idiot, Minister," she said sternly, "so cut the political bullshite and be honest with me. You want me to wait because you want our stories to match."

"Don't they, Hermione?"

She bristled at the use of the familiar. "You know full well that they don't. Owls sent and never answered. Reinforcements requested and never given. You _abandoned_ us in the field," she spat. "We were just collateral damage of a botched and ill-planned assassination. Or will the Ministry be coming clean about how you treated us? A new level of transparency, that would be."

Kingsley paled. "You were soldiers. Your companions died for a cause they believed in."

"We were people condemned to die in pursuit of justice," she shot back, "and don't you dare make it out to be anything but."

She turned to storm out of the room but Kingsley grabbed her arm.

"You could hurt a lot of people, Ms. Granger."

His voice was low and fierce; hers was a strong echo. "You already have."

"I made the decision I thought was right."

"And it was wrong. And now you have to live with that. Just like I do."

They stared at each other for a very long time, nostrils flared in anger, chests heaving, eyes flashing.

"_I need your silence_," he said slowly, accenting each word. "Everyone else is gagged, but you… You could destroy us. You could topple this administration with a single interview."

"I know," she replied. It was tempting.

_So tempting_.

"When will you tell their families?" she asked.

"Monday," he replied. "I'm going myself."

She shook her head. "That's not good enough. You should have told them the _minute_ I got back. Tomorrow."

"Sunday? But it's-"

"I don't fucking care if it's your mother's funeral. You will tell them tomorrow or I will call up Rita Skeeter. We're old pals, she and I," she said with a smirk. "I'm sure her quill is simply _dying_ to eviscerate something."

Kingsley looked down his nose at her. Though he was a good eight inches taller and five inches broader, Hermione did not look away.

"You are not the girl you once were," he muttered, finally releasing her arm.

"I'm not. And you're not the man I thought you were."

He sneered but let the barb pass. "I have your silence?"

"For tomorrow. I'll decide whether or not to keep it for longer when I see Monday's morning paper."

He regarded her carefully again and, after a moment: "Make the Vow."

The words were a blow. Red sparks shot from the tip of her wand but her expression might as well have been carved from stone. "Good day, Minister."

And with that, she left, satisfied with her threats and reasonably confident Kingsley would pull through. She hoped he would. She _hated_ reporters.

As her flat had been foreclosed upon, Hermione was directed to a Ministry-approved safe house. It was well stocked with food, clothes, and – best of all – a note granting her a hefty leave of absence (though she was certain she would never go back), four years of unpaid salary, an immense bonus, and an Order of Merlin, First Class.

All things considered, she slept well that night.

Her good mood was gone when Sunday morning broke, however. Because no matter how trying her confrontation with Kingsley had been, it would not be half as bad as what she was going to do today.

Draco listened without really hearing, stared without really seeing. He had been _actually_ listening and seeing for the past two hours, which was quite long enough to form a well-rounded opinion of his first – dare he think it? – _suitor_, Annabelle D'Aphonus.

Despite her loud laugh, too-wide mouth, obvious desire to say the right thing, laugh at the right time, and look perfect perfect _perfect_, she wasn't half bad. Her body was slender and graceful, her neck long, her fingers slim and delicate. Her blue eyes sparkled in the June sunshine and her dark blonde hair was radiant, hanging straight and smooth down to the middle of her back. She had a nice smile (even if it was a bit toothy), good manners, and seemed more intelligent than the usual Pureblood woman even though she was twenty-three to his twenty-seven.

Most importantly, she seemed sincerely engaged with Demetrius, asking him questions about his broomstick, his invisible friends, the games he played with the elves, and the prospect of starting school lessons in the fall. She even sketched and animated a Minotaur for him on one of his mother's favorite linen napkins. Draco appreciated this about as much as Demetrius did, but for an entirely different reason.

So she was lovely and charming and good with children, but the possibility that she was only interested in his money was constantly at the forefront of his thoughts. Even after paying hefty war reparations, his family was still in possession of a considerable fortune. As a reclusive, heart-broken single father is high on no one's 'Most Eligible Widower' list, he had to consider the existence of an ulterior motive.

Hermione had never been interested in his money. It was the one thing she disdained about him, actually. Luxury hotels, four-course meals at five-star restaurants, bouquets of red roses… He had used them all when he courted her and, each time, without fail, she was unimpressed. But a photo of them that he had gotten framed? She had never smiled so widely. A handful of wild flowers he had picked himself (okay, not himself – the elves had helped, but did she really need to know)? Utter delight.

He should have known. And it seemed to fit: Draco was rich enough to give even the greediest woman more than she could ever ask for, yet he had fallen for the one who _had_ asked for more, one who had wanted what money could never buy.

He laid his hand on his thigh. Through the fabric, he felt the crinkle of parchment that, no matter how many Stasis charms he cast upon it, was disintegrating more and more each day. It was the note in Demetrius's basket, the one that proved her existence and her love. Atop that was her wedding ring. It was the only damned piece of jewelry she had ever accepted from him and the only gift she had ever returned.

Bugger it all. He was comparing them – exactly what he _didn't_ want to do.

Annabelle laughed, drawing Draco out of his thoughts. He smiled at her but there must have been something off about his expression. She quieted too quickly and soon they were enveloped in silence, caught in each other's eyes. Suddenly, it was all very clear to him.

Annabelle needed to know. She needed to know everything. And not just Annabelle; a_ny_ woman his mother tried to set him up with. Every potential mate needed to know that Draco was damaged. They needed to know it would take time, possibly more time than he had, to heal, to move past his missing wife and into the next stage of his life. They needed to know that their love, if given, would not be returned as completely as they – or Draco – would like.

The honesty had to start now. "Would you care to join me for a walk, Annabelle?" He rose and offered her his hand.

She smiled and took it. "Of course."

"Mitri? Would you like to come?"

"No, I want to play with my Min'taur. Rawr, rawr, rawr!" The napkin Minotaur was currently facing a stuffed dragon wielding a stick and looked none too pleased to be facing an armed foe.

Draco chuckled and smoothed his son's hair. "Be good, okay? Stay where I can see you."

Demetrius said an absent, "Okay," as Annabelle took his arm. Once they were out of hearing range, Draco turned to her.

"I'm afraid my mother may not have been completely honest with you."

Hermione simultaneously wondered at Draco's constancy and was immensely bothered by it. Three years later and his wards hadn't changed, allowing her through without so much as a warning to the master of the house. It was lazy and dangerous, putting their son at risk like that, though she _was_ very grateful to get through without him knowing. Regardless, she would have to find a way to mention it later if they were on speaking terms. Perhaps in a note if otherwise.

She took refuge in a familiar copse of trees and turned her wand upon herself, lightening and shortening her hair, elongating her nose and thinning her lips. She told herself that the subtle changes were for Demetrius's benefit. If he looked too much like her and recognized it, he might ask questions. Questions she wasn't sure Draco would be comfortable answering. And if she saw father and son together, maybe her disguise would hold Draco off long enough for her to get him alone and explain everything.

There was a third hypothesis, one Hermione allowed herself to entertain but would never, ever admit to being true: the disguise was for herself. Maybe part of her hoped Draco wouldn't recognize her. Maybe if she saw them together as a happy, functioning family… Maybe if she saw him with a beautiful and kindly woman, the mother her son unquestionably deserved… Though it would kill her to see and not claim her own blood, she was confident that she could walk away.

Hell, for their happiness, she could leap mountains.

She strode confidently up to the front door, knocked, waited five minutes, knocked again, waited five _more_ minutes, and decided that the elves had either not heard or been ordered not to answer the door. Hermione tried the handle, but it was locked. Determined to see this through, she headed to the backyard.

As she walked, she heard a child's voice. It grew louder and louder with every step, a Siren's song preying on her vulnerable heart. She was practically running by the time she rounded the final corner, but the child she saw brought her to a complete standstill.

Her son.

At last.

He was the most beautiful being on the face of the planet, sitting on the ground, playing with a green stuffed animal and a linen napkin. His ruffled platinum hair caught the sun in just the right way, creating a corona around his head. His skin was pale and smooth and his smile… Oh, his smile! It made sunlight seem like a dim reflection off muddy water. Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, afraid her smile would give way to manic laughter. Only then did she notice she was crying.

She did not deserve this opportunity. She did not deserve to see him, to breathe the same air. She had left him once before. Now should be no different, no more difficult. It would be better, in fact. She would leave his life intact and prevent him from facing hard truths he was too young and innocent to fully comprehend.

She would have gone, too. She would have left immediately had he not looked up.

Seeing him straight-on was like seeing the face of God. He was an angel, seraphic, sublime. It was like everything around her no longer mattered, not when a little miracle lived and breathed right in front of her.

Hermione froze, mouth open, eyes streaming tears. When the full force of his smile hit, she nearly fainted. Her body was entirely beyond her control. Her feet moved her forward without conscious thought and soon she was standing closer to him than she had ever imagined.

"Hi," he said, not one bit shy.

His voice. Merlin, she had never thought she would hear anything more beautiful than Draco's laugh, but here it was. She memorized it. She memorized _everything_. She was not going to forget one single _sound_ of this encounter. Because this? This was the best day of her life.

The confusion in the boy's almond-brown eyes – the same shade as her own, Circe help her! – told her that she had been silent for too long.

"Hello," she replied softly, not trusting herself to speak louder for fear of scaring this fey child away.

"Your eyes are pretty."

Hermione gasped. Of all the things not to change, she had to neglect her eye color?

"Your eyes are pretty, too," she managed with a smile. "I've always liked the color brown."

"My daddy's eyes are silver and sometimes I want silver eyes but he says mine are perfect. Sometimes his are red, too. Why are _your_ eyes red? Did Nana tell you a funny joke?"

None of this could be real. This flawless day, this flawless child… It had to be a dream.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Hermione paused. How much had Draco told him? How much information was too much? "Jean," she hedged, then took a deep breath and asked the pivotal question. "What's yours?"

The boy drew himself up. Hermione nearly burst with pride. "Demetrius Logan Malfoy."

She wanted to laugh and cry and sing and dance. It was perfect: Demetrius, a Malfoy family name, and Logan, a Granger family name. Hermione felt the burden of her sacrifice triple, but she had never loved Draco more.

"That's a very nice name," was her pitiful reply.

"Thanks. Want to see my li-berry?"

"Your library?" The correction was out before she could stop herself, but Demetrius didn't seem to mind. Did Draco correct him often? What else had he taught the boy?

"Yeah! Li-brurry! It's my daddy and mine's favorite place! He reads to me every night on a big comfy chair and then carries me on his back to my room. But he says I'm getting too big for that and that I might have to carry him! But then _I _said that _he's_ too big and how am I supposed to carry him?"

Demetrius giggled. It was like the sound of bells.

"Come on! Let's go!"

She should have asked where Draco was. She should have waited to see him before taking off with their son. But her reason, her sense, her entire _being_ was obliterated as soon as Demetrius took her hand. His skin was so soft and so warm. Hermione would bet her life it was fragrant, too. Probably orchids and love and life and sunshine. She curled her hand around his, willing herself to stay conscious, to remember, forever, and try to not wrap him in her arms like she so wanted to and bury her face in his sweet, perfect hair.

The path to the library was one she knew well, so she did not have to focus much on where to place her feet, opting instead to listen to Demetrius's continuous narrative of his life. He told her about his elf friends, about his Nana, about how sad she was about Grandfather Lucius being gone, about his broom, about playing Chaser and Keeper, and how he suspected Draco was letting him win. As soon as they headed to the library, Demetrius headed to a low shelf on the far wall stocked with colorful books.

He selected a book and skipped to the nearest couch, plunking down on it, obviously expecting her to join.

"Do you read yet?" she asked.

"Yeah, but I can't say some of the big words."

She smiled and barely refrained from putting an arm around him. "I'm sure you're great. Why don't you read for me?"

"Okay!" He began and Hermione allowed herself to sit back and bask in her good fortune, to feel joy as it was meant to be felt.

Draco had finished speaking long ago. To his surprise, Annabelle had not run away screaming. She had, however, been silent for the last five minutes. That was never a good sign with women, but he knew better than to weasel conversation out of her. She would talk when she had something to say, though that didn't make waiting any easier.

As they made their way toward the Manor, Draco tried to spy Demetrius. But the Minotaur napkin and his favorite dragon had been abandoned.

The realization struck like lightning. His son was gone.

Fear like Draco had never felt surged into every vein and cell. Primal, instinctual… No. This went deeper than all of that. This was gut-wrenching, bile-surging, raw, undiluted _panic_; horror so extreme that Draco lost his mind in its vortex.

He threw away Annabelle's arm and sprinted toward the manor, bellowing his son's name. He had to be here. He couldn't have gone. The wards. _Why hadn't he changed the bloody wards_? But they couldn't have let a stranger through without Draco knowing about it. They were ancient but they were strong, and Demetrius could not be taken without _wanting_ to go. He had to be here. _He had to be!_ But the panic did not abate. There is no certainty in the mind of a childless parent.

He threw open the double doors and headed to the library, nearly slipping on the slick marble. He kicked open those doors next, revealing a very terrified woman and – thank Merlin – Demetrius.

With nothing but a strangled cry, Draco crossed the room and fell to his knees before his son, dislodging the stranger. He hugged his son to his chest and tried not to yell. "Don't ever do that to me again," he choked out between ragged breaths. "You must tell me where you're going or let the elves know so they can tell me. I thought something had happened to you."

"I'm sorry, Father," Demetrius said, sounding equal parts chided and scared. "I just wanted to show her my li-brurry."

Draco followed his son's pointed finger to the woman standing beside him and felt rage. It burned hot and bright, and all of its fire licked at the child-snatching bitch who had sat so cavalierly at his son's side.

He tamped down the overwhelming desire to murder her where she stood. His son was at an impressionable age, after all, and murder would require a lengthy explanation. "Demetrius, please excuse us for a minute. We have adult matters to discuss."

"But-"

"This is not a request," he snapped. His anger was rising more swiftly than he meant it to. He got to his feet and ushered Demetrius outside.

"But Daddy-"

"A few minutes, Demetrius, and then we'll fly, yes? Good." He shut the door without waiting for an answer and whirled around.

"_You_." He spat the word, seething in anger, and drew his wand. "Who the _hell_ are you?" he ground out slowly, accentuating each word. "How in Merlin's _bloody_ name did you get onto my property? And what the _fuck_ were you doing with my son?"

He had backed her into a corner, his wand pressed tightly to the delicate skin of her throat, eliciting a whimper Draco relished. He wanted more than that, though. He wanted to hear her _scream_. Her breaths came in frantic little puffs and her chest heaved. Her body shook, her eyes were wide with fear, but she did not reach for her wand. A stupid woman in more than one way, then. The world would be better without her.

"I'm… I'm so sorry. He… Demetrius…" She said his name like it was sacred, looking past Draco to the library doors with a soft, yearning expression. "He wanted to show me his books. He's… He's a very good reader. Such a clever little boy. So clever, so bright, so… So beautiful."

As soon as she had begun to speak, Draco's fury sputtered out of existence.

That voice.

_Her_ voice.

The room shifted and teetered.

But it was impossible. She was gone. Lost. Dead! He must have relapsed, seeing her in anyone who looked remotely similar. It had happened before, this insanity, but not recently. Its recurrence was worrying. But still, this woman did look _remarkably_ like her. Shorter nose and stature, darker hair, fuller lips. The shape of her face, though, and her body…

And then he looked into her eyes.

And then he knew.

It was like being punched in the gut. He lurched backward a step, his eyes wide in disbelief. It couldn't be. _It couldn't_!

Quietly, he asked her. "_The_ _Odyssey_."

Her answer was very soft, almost a whisper. "Homer, seventh or eighth century, B.C. Accounts war hero Odysseus's journey home to his wife and son. It takes him ten years to get back and costs him more than anyone could ever know, but it was all he ever wanted… To be home again."

Draco staggered backward until he collided with the sofa. He braced himself, not allowing himself to believe it quite yet.

"Draco?"

He started and glanced to the corner, where Annabelle had been standing silently. She walked toward him and reached out her hand. The stranger's face contorted with momentary agony. He read the intention in her eyes and barked an order. "Stop!" He pointed his wand at her and glared. "Don't you dare leave me. I am not through with you." The stranger hesitated, then lowered her gaze to the floor. He turned back to Annabelle.

He didn't need to say a word. Everything he wanted to say was written across his face. To his surprise, she smiled.

"I understand. Good luck." She stepped up to him and kissed him on the forehead. The contact was over before he could even register it happening. Then the library door opened and she was gone. Draco finally let the gravity of what had happened crash over him.

And crash it did.

He staggered over to her like a drunkard and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Show me." It was somewhere between a croak and a plea. He shook her, gripping her far too firmly, acutely aware of her sharp bones and fragile skin. "_Show me_!"

Slowly, she reached for her wand. His breath caught: vine, ten and three-quarter inches, dragon heartstring. He would know it anywhere. Then, even more slowly, she passed it over her face, down her body, and revealed herself.

It was like coming out of sensory deprivation. He saw her – her freckles, her hair, her eyebrows, her lips. She was older, weathered, and supremely exhausted. Deep bags sagged beneath her beautiful eyes and her face was thinner than it had been. But it was her, unmistakably, and she had never looked more divine. Her scent was everywhere – enduring, unchanging – and his stomach knotted and twisted and flipped. And there were colors in the world again, and life and beauty and magic. And it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

He whispered her name and crushed her to him, claiming her lips and body and soul for his own. He buried his face in her hair and sobbed. _Sobbed_, and loved each aching breath because each lungful was filled with her. She clung to him, weeping just as violently, and dug her fingers into his skin, into his neck, assuring herself of his existence. It hurt and he bled, but the pain was bliss because it was _real_ and it would take days, weeks, _years_ of this kind of touch before they regained the sensation they had lost, before they forgot the agony and ecstasy of time gone and this moment gained, both excruciating in their extremes.

A tug on his shirttail pulled Draco out of the whirlpool of endorphin and emotion, bringing him back to reality. What he saw amplified his pain tenfold: Demetrius, red-eyed, runny-nosed, and absolutely terrified.

He cried out and released Hermione. Then he fell to his knees and hugged his son close, cradling him like he hadn't in years. There was so much to explain, so much Demetrius wouldn't understand yet. But there was no more waiting, no more excuses he could make. Today, he would know her, and he would love her, and they could finally be a family. They could finally be _whole_.

Draco wiped his eyes with the back of one hand and looked at his son, so young, so fragile… So much like _her_. He smiled a watery smile and held Demetrius by the shoulders.

"I'm so sorry, son. I should have told you sooner. And one day soon, I'll explain everything, I promise. But the woman behind me? The nice lady you were reading to earlier?" He took a deep breath as Demetrius regarded him seriously. "That woman's name is Hermione, Demetrius. She's your… She's your mother."

Demetrius's almond eyes widened and lifted to regard the woman who had borne him. His expression was steady for a moment, then fresh tears glistened in his eyes. His voice was tremulous, uncertain, but still he spoke.

"Mummy?"

Hermione knelt and smiled tightly, trying to hold back her tears. Then she nodded. With a cry, Demetrius threw himself around her and Hermione broke, clutching her son, burying her face in his neck, and experiencing bliss in the way only a mother could.

In that moment, with his wife at his side and their son in her arms, Draco's reality finally slipped back into place. He fished her wedding ring from his pocket and felt the parchment finally crumble to dust. All he could do was smile: the _past_ was dust. He had no use for it anymore.

All Draco needed – all he had ever needed – was his family. And as he slipped the ring onto the third finger of Hermione's left hand and wrapped his arms around her and their son, he had them.

Finally, he had them.

The End


End file.
